The Lamorna Wink (16 page)

“Murder?” She sat forward, eyes wide. “My God, you mean Chris—?”

“No, no. A woman named Sada Colthorp.”

“Lamorna. I've been there; it's not much, just a few cottages and a pub and a little café operated for tourists. And a hotel, I think. Lamorna Cove's popular with tourists; it's quite lovely.”

“This Sada Colthorp was murdered at the same time Chris Wells disappeared.”

Karen looked at him. “Police think there's some connection?”

“I don't know what they think.” He changed the subject. “You mentioned Bletchley Hall. It's owned by your father-in-law?”

“Daniel's father.”

“The elder Mr. Bletchley.”

“Morris, his name is. He seems to prefer Moe. He bought the place and donated it to the village, by way of a trust. He gave it his name, as he does everything. Except for Chick'nKing. I suppose even he couldn't see ‘Chick'nBletchley.' He lives at the Hall. That does not mean he's dying. Far from it. Having told everyone he knows how to live, he's now telling them how to die.”

There seemed to be no rancor in her tone. Only amusement, a half-remembered smile.

Melrose smiled too. “Domineering.”

“You've no idea. Can you imagine choosing to live there?” She made a sweeping gesture with her arm, taking in the whole room. “This wonderful house is his. He could live here or anywhere. The man's a billionaire. That fast-food chain; I can't begin to estimate how much it's worth. And he's got a large investment in real estate. I can't comprehend it: living at Bletchley Hall among the dying.”

“Perhaps,” said Melrose, reflecting, “he's overwhelmed by the fear of death.”

She'd been about to sip her whisky; her hand stopped in midair. “Moe? He's not afraid of anything. And if he were of
that,
I'd think he'd steer clear of a hospice, to say the least.”

“Not necessarily. Someone with business genius might think he could master anything, including death, by meeting it head on. You know, to gain some sort of control. We don't think about death nearly enough. We run from it.”

She frowned. “Isn't that rather morbid?”

Melrose was disappointed. The “isn't-that-morbid response” was what he'd expect of a mind cluttered with clichés. It was also begging the question. “No, it isn't.” Inwardly he sighed. No wonder he had problems with women if he were going to contradict them at every turn. Anyway, Karen Bletchley was a woman he shouldn't be considering as a “problemswith-women” candidate. Melrose lighted her cigarette, then returned to the subject of Lamorna Cove and Sada Colthorp. “Does she sound at all familiar to you? Her maiden name was Sada May. Or Sadie, she seemed to have called herself. I mean, you wouldn't have known her, would you?”

“I? Why should I have known her?”

The question had been innocent enough. Melrose thought she was being defensive. “Only because she's from Lamorna, apparently.”

The silence now was not particularly companionable. She wore the look of one who, having accepted an invitation, was wondering how to renege on it. Melrose felt not so much uncomfortable as sad, the sadness attendant on something at best ephemeral, unnamed or unnameable, finally slipping away. A little too heartily, Melrose slapped the arms of his chair and said as he rose, “Time to get to the spuds. They'll be mush, but who cares, since they'll be mashed anyway.”

Her frozen look melted a bit as she said, “The sole won't take long. By the time you get the lumps in the potatoes, it'll be done.”

It was a shot at the former easy exchange that didn't quite make it.

At dinner, they both pronounced the sole good enough to pass the inspection of the fishmonger and the potatoes properly lumpy and the wine exquisite. Bletchley had a wine cellar which Melrose hadn't known about until he apologized for the Nouveau Beaujolais, which he claimed could hardly be considered “nouveau.” Karen asked, why, if he didn't like it, had he bought it?

“Because the Oddbins fellow was so thick in his praise of it; I didn't want to seem to be doubting him.”

She laughed. “Good lord, but you are a pushover. The fishmonger, the wine merchant.”

It was then she had told him about the wine cellar and invited him to choose his own. They went down together. He had found half a dozen bottles of Puligny-Montrachet, a Premier Cru, and his favorite Meursault. He commented upon her husband's excellent taste.

“More his father's. Though it's not necessarily his knowledge of wine. It's more Morris's insistence that if it costs a lot, it's good.”

Melrose was dusting off the bottle. “It's true, though, isn't it? At least when it comes to wine.”

Her tone was a trifle acidic. “You sound like someone Morris would like.”

“Oh? But then I must sound like someone you wouldn't.”

Having drunk a bottle and a half of the Montrachet between them, Melrose said, “Who was the investigating officer when the . . . accident occurred?” He reproached himself for the coldness of the question.

Karen flinched, but she gave it some thought. “I'm afraid I don't remember their names. I do remember, though, the high-ranking one was very . . . intense. A chief inspector or superintendent, he was. I remember his eyes. It wasn't just that they were very blue, they were a burning blue. I could almost see the tiny flame. I also remember he made me feel that his priorities were mine.”

“They were. You're talking about Commander Macalvie. Another thing about him: He never gives up.”

B
rian Macalvie
breathed
police work. For him it was like the advertisements of carpenters and handymen: “No job too small.” A divisional commander, Macalvie was one of the highest-ranking officers in Devon and Cornwall. Yet he would happily chase a speeding car and hand out a ticket.

He was demanding—how could he not be?—perhaps too much so, for the people under him often applied for transfers. As far as Melrose was concerned, if these lesser lights couldn't tell the difference between arrogance and commitment, maybe the CID was well shut of them.

Melrose was speaking to Macalvie now; he'd called him after Karen had left the next morning to report on his visit with Rodney Colthorp.

“Bolt. Simon Bolt. There was an investigation—” Macalvie paused, musing. “Years back he lived in Lamorna. Which is where I am now. You'll be interested in the crime scene. Come along.”

Melrose was taken aback by this invitation. Although he had always gotten on with Macalvie, it was usually when Jury was on the case. Macalvie disliked amateurs, but then he disliked most professionals, too.

It must be instinct.

His earlier question still unanswered about the death of the Bletchley children, he asked it again: “Couldn't they have been—say—drowned in their own bathwater and then
moved
to the rocks?”

“No.”

“How can you be sure?”

“The little kids were holding hands.”

Macalvie hung up.

J
ohnny Wells sat in the kitchen of the Woodbine, taking some small comfort in the familiar aromas of baking scones and freshly brewed coffee, and taking comfort also in the familiar movements of Brenda Friel.

Brenda stopped her hard beating of a pastry dough that already shone in the light like satin and looked at him. “Sweetheart, you ought not to worry so much. I know Chris will be back.”

How? he wanted to ask her. But she was only trying to lift his spirits, so he said nothing about Chris. Instead, he said, “What about that murdered woman in Lamorna?”

Brenda's eyes widened. “You aren't thinking that has anything to do with Chris?”

He sat studying the worn place on the vinyl floor and went back to sampling one of the Sweet Ladies. “These are terrific; no wonder people like them. What's in the meringues?” He thought he should be generous enough to make Brenda feel her Sweet Ladies had gotten his mind off Chris.

She laughed. “I don't give out my recipes, sweetheart. People have been trying to get this one out of me for years. The scones are done; you can take them right on the cookie sheet as proof positive that they're fresh-made. You know how particular Morris Bletchley is.”

Johnny smiled for the first time that day, thinking about Moe Bletchley.

T
hey bent to get under the tape that cordoned off this section of the footpath, then walked on wet leaves to the place where the body had been found. Macalvie hunkered down and looked with such intensity, the body might still be there.

“What are you looking for?”

Macalvie grunted. “Rest of this.” He held up the fragment of black plastic he'd retrieved from his forensics man, Fleming, who'd exacted a promise from Macalvie that he return it.

“What is it?” Melrose turned it over and over.

“Probably a piece off the top of the plastic box that holds a tape. You know, video tapes.”

“Oh.” He waited for Macalvie to continue, but he didn't.

Macalvie stayed in this kneeling position, motionless, for what seemed a long time. The place didn't lend itself to measured time. All that could be heard was the low soughing of the waves below them and the slight rustle of the trees around them.

Macalvie rose and looked behind them in the direction of the house where they'd left the car. A large front garden had been converted to hard standing to accommodate several cars.

“Who lives there?” asked Melrose.

“No one, now. Sada Colthorp's friend Simon Bolt used to. So there's a connection with our murdered lady. With some checking—well, say more of a lucky break I had running into a detective in London who works Vice. He told me Bolt was in the filmmaking business. Producer, director, scriptwriter. He managed to do all of it because he wasn't making
Titanic.
Or anything else that might be shown in your local cinema. He made zip films: a lot of blood, S and M, that sort of stuff. His sideline was pornography—though it all sounds pornographic to me. They tried to get him on vice charges but couldn't make it stick. Anyway, that's who the house belonged to.” He frowned. Even Macalvie's frown was intense, as if more were stored in his expression than was common to a frown. He divested himself of what was superficial, shallow or oversimple. Everything not case-specific was burned away, and that included the suppression of his Scots accent and Glaswegian upbringing. He seemed to be getting down to cases and roots.

“This where the tape comes in?”

“Probably.”

Melrose looked at the trammeled ground where police had worked. What was it Rodney Colthorp had said about Bolt?
Bit of a wide lad, that one.

T
he usual frisson of apprehension ran like a ripple through the crowd when Macalvie walked in the bar of the Lamorna Wink, time stopping for a second so the scene looked like a frieze rather than a room with flesh-and-blood people.

Melrose got the drinks. Some of Macalvie's fame had rubbed off on him, for the regulars watched him walk up to the bar and signal the barmaid. They had taken a table in the corner near the fireplace, though even the corner offered little escape from the inquisitive eyes of the customers. Macalvie, however, didn't appear to notice his celebrity as he went up to the jukebox, slotted in some coins, and punched up a tune. He was still wearing his coat even though the fire poured out heat as if it came from a pitcher.

One might suppose the man was always cold, as some people are. But Melrose felt as if Macalvie were instead always leaving. He was surprised by the deep anxiety this provoked in him, as if a support kept threatening to give way. In this respect, Macalvie was different from Richard Jury; Jury seemed cloaked in a sort of melancholy, yet always seemed to leave some of his comfort behind; when Macalvie left, consolation left with him. And it seemed to have something to do with that coat which he never took off.